


Five Times John Watson Couldn't Stop Being a Doctor (and One Time He Could)

by fatal_drum



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5 Times, Fandom Trumps Hate, Fluff, M/M, Post-Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-10-13 04:46:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10506564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatal_drum/pseuds/fatal_drum
Summary: A look at John and Sherlock's relationship and its development over the years, including post-TFP.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SandyWormbook](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandyWormbook/gifts).



> Many thanks to the people who made this possible: the organizers of Fandom Trumps Hate; SandyWormbook, who graciously donated to Planned Parenthood and betaed the story; [Seluvia](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Seluvia) and [DrHannibalLecterMD](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DrHannibalLecterMD/pseuds/DrHannibalLecterMD) for their helpful edits; and [banditess](http://archiveofourown.org/users/banditess/pseuds/banditess) and [inter-spem-et-metum](http://archiveofourown.org/users/inter_spem_et_metum/pseuds/inter_spem_et_metum) for cheerleading.

******1.**

Sherlock was on  _ fire _ , thoughts sparking against each other like tinder, making connections faster than his mouth could speak them. It was pleasantly overwhelming as he flew around the room, pausing here with the magnifying glass, there to rub chalky powder between his fingers, leaping a few feet over to sniff a suspicious stain. He vaguely heard Lestrade muttering in the background, but it was nothing compared to the noise and the rush inside his head.

“The piano,” he realized suddenly.

“What piano?” someone asked.

Sherlock gestured to the scuff marks on the carpet, the brighter paint on the wall from where the instrument had protected it from the sun. Then he pulled his coat tighter around him and made for the door.

He made it to the pavement outside when someone took his shoulders in a strong grip and a voice brought him back to the world outside. He blinked against the sunlight, feeling oddly lightheaded.

“Sherlock,” John was saying, “when's the last time you ate?”

“ What day is it?”

John's grip tightened slightly before he let go. “Will the music teacher get any deader if we stop at the chippy?” he asked.

“That's beside the point, John—”

John tugged his sleeve, and he followed out of habit.

“I'm not hungry,” Sherlock insisted.

“Then you can watch me eat.”

The smell of chip oil, salt and vinegar greeted them as the door swung closed behind them. Sherlock's eyes brushed over a couple having an affair, an executive with a gambling habit, and a reformed heroin addict reading P.G. Wodehouse. Judging by the creases on the cover, it had seen at least two—no, three previous owners. The fingers gripping the book were callused in a way he knew came only from hours of embroidery—

John's hands gripped his shoulders again, steering him into a chair. Sherlock looked down at the menu. The greasy thumbprints on the edge suggested a primary schooler. Two different ones, actually; they'd shared. He heard John give their order before the man appeared in front of him.

Sherlock let his eyes rest on his friend's worn face. He'd already deduced every new detail this morning, from the new haircut ( _ pity; it had looked nice with the beginnings of a curl _ ) to the coffee stain on his left sleeve from where he'd stopped on the way to meet Sherlock at the crime scene. He let the details wash over him, the familiar dishwater hair, the steady blue eyes. His thoughts slowed to a comfortable hum.

John munched a chip thoughtfully. “I think they've changed the oil again.”

“No, they haven't.”

“Really? Prove it.”

Sherlock snatched a chip from the plate and popped it into his mouth, chewing meditatively. His stomach growled as the greasy food hit his tongue, hot and salty. He took another, then another, ignoring John's attempts to swat his hands away.

“It's exactly the same,” Sherlock concluded.

“I'm telling you, it's different.”

Sherlock then proceeded to explain his research into frying oils, from peanut oil to sesame, and the shop owner's unconventional relationship with the supplier. He punctuated his points occasionally by wagging a chip in John's direction.

Seven minutes later, John ordered another basket, and Sherlock pretended not to notice.

 

* * *

  
**2.**

John drummed his fingers over the window sill, eyes darting over the streets below as Sherlock and Angelo explored the flat. He tried not to think about getting a second ASBO if someone saw them. Much less if the owner of the flat caught up with them. He fingered the leather holster under his jumper.

“That's a beauty,” Angelo said, running his gloved fingers over the steel safe.

“Yes, yes, it's a very attractive metal box,” Sherlock said, waving his hands impatiently. “but can you crack it?”

“Of course I can crack it.” Angelo cracked his knuckles and raised a stethoscope to his ears. Apparently becoming a restaurateur hadn't prompted him to give up  _ all  _ his old vices.

He raised the bell of the stethoscope to the door of the safe and twisted the dial. A grimace knotted his brow.

“Bloody headache,” he muttered, wiping his brow before returning to his work.

John turned back to the window. “What do you expect to find in there?” he asked, watching a young couple striding up the street, arm in arm.

He heard Sherlock digging through the mark's dresser drawers. “I'm not sure.”

“That's a first,” John muttered.

“I'm sure you can tell me all about it.”

John snorted and kept his eyes on the street below. The tall one looked a bit like Harry: choppy blonde hair in a cleverly disarrayed style, ripped jeans, and a blindingly pink jumper. The girl nestled against her shoulder was smaller, with thick black hair and skin the color of milky tea. The Harry look-alike dropped a kiss against her hair, making her giggle. He couldn't hear it, but he could see the laughter in the set of her mouth.

He found himself wondering what Harry must be up to. How much she'd had to drink. If she was seeing someone. They hadn't talked in six weeks. She'd seemed... not better, but getting there.

It was hard not to hold onto that hope, but he had practice.

A loud clang rang out. John jerked, his gun halfway out of the holster before he realized there was no threat.

“Sorry,” Angelo said, shaking the fingers of his right hand. “Dropped it.” The stethoscope hung limply from his ears.

Something about the image snagged at the corners of John's brains, something not quite right. He stepped closer.

“It's fine,” Angelo said, and John realized what he was seeing.

“Angelo,” John said slowly. “will you smile for me?”

Angelo frowned. “I don't think—”

“Just do it.”

Angelo's lips curled in an awkward attempt at a smile, confirming his suspicion: the right side of his mouth drooped very slightly.

“Raise your arms to either side.”

Angelo frowned and did as he was told. Predictably, the right arm hung heavier, refusing to lift as high as the other.

“You're having a stroke,” John said. “You're going to be fine, but I'm calling an ambulance.”

“We can't call an ambulance here,” Sherlock argued. “It's a crime scene.  _ Our _ crime scene.”

“Angelo's brain is starving for oxygen, and you're worried about getting caught?”

Sherlock opened his mouth, and then he shut it. John pulled Angelo to his feet.

“Come on,” John said. “You're not breaking into any safes today.”

Sherlock's curiously blank expression stayed with John as he left, helping Angelo to the lift.

 

* * *

 

**3.**

Later, John would blame the football match.

It had started well enough, though he should have known better. Lestrade had invited him to the pub to watch the game with his officers and Molly Hooper, and for once, he had a babysitter already lined up.

“But I need you here,” Sherlock insisted.

“Can't I just text you photos?” John held his forearm up for display. It was quite red in places, with crisscrossing marks from various types of rope.

Sherlock gave him an unimpressed look.

“You know as well as I do that photographs are a weak substitute for visualizing contusions in real time.”

“Well, my arm and I are going to the pub. If you need us, you can come yourself.” John grabbed his coat. “Unless it's too much for you to relax like a human being.”

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, and John realized his mistake.

“I am  _ quite  _ capable of relaxation.”

“Right,” John said.

It was with an air of unreality that John entered the pub, Sherlock trailing behind like a gaunt, well-coiffed shadow. Molly nearly dropped her glass of white wine when she caught sight of them. Donovan's face fell as they approached, then straightened as Lestrade elbowed her. Another officer he didn't recognize gave them a friendly nod, clearly not acquainted with Sherlock.

“Have you ever even seen a football match?” Donovan asked.

“Of course I have,” Sherlock sniffed. “Last year I solved the murder of a man who was found strangled in the locker room when witnesses placed him on the pitch not five minutes earlier.”

“Of course,” Donovan took a long swallow of her cola, rolling her eyes.

Sherlock then proceeded to rattle off statistics for both teams and their principal players, a critique of the teams' opening strategies, and a nuanced discussion of the pub's hygienic practices.

“Lemons are one of the biggest sources of contamination in commercial kitchens,” Molly chimed in.

Lestrade eyed his drink with concern.

“Of course, on a practical level, you've a better chance of getting shot than dying of  _ E. coli _ from a lemon.” Molly giggled, then blushed at the look Lestrade gave her.

“Utterly true.” Sherlock agreed. “Lestrade in particular has a knack for attracting gunfire. Did he ever tell you about the heroin dealer in Camden?”

“That was ages ago.” Lestrade argued.

“And the robber in Kensington?”

“ _ Half  _ an age ago.”

Sherlock looked down at his watch. “John, I need to see your arm now.”

Lestrade's eyes widened as John rolled up his sleeve. The marks on his wrist were purpling, while others further up his arm were fading to a lighter pink.

“If this is some kind of kinky sex game—” Donovan began.

“—I would hardly involve you, would I?” Sherlock sneered.

“I'm also sure Sherlock knows enough about ropes not to cut off John's circulation.” Molly said.

John turned, jaw dropping. He swallowed, but no sound came out. Molly's flushed from her cheeks to the neck of her jumper.

“Quite right,” Sherlock agreed. “Molly, you're the only one here with an ounce of logic.”

Her blush deepened from pink to scarlet, but she nodded in acceptance.

“Leaving Sherlock's sex life aside...” Lestrade coughed.

“Yes, let's do,” John said hastily.

Before they could return a safer topic, a man behind Lestrade pushed his chair back so quickly it hit the floor with a clatter.

“Say that again!” the owner of the chair demanded. “You bloody coward.”

“Now, look here—” Lestrade began.

Then all hell broke loose. Lestrade caught an elbow in the face, going down like a sack of potatoes. John was on his feet before he knew what had happened, dragging Lestrade out of harm's way as two men had it out over the referee's call. Sherlock leapt back like a scalded cat, dragging Molly by the shoulders. The man hit their table with a crash, scattering glasses and spilling lager everywhere.

Donovan moved in a blur, pinning the aggressor against the table with both wrists behind his back. The man on their table sat up, making as if to have another go, but Donovan's glare stopped him in his tracks.

John looked down at Lestrade, who was blinking and rubbing his forehead. When John pushed his hand to the side, he could see a knot rising over his left brow.

“All right, Greg?”

Lestrade shook his head as if to clear it. “Think so.”

John patted his pockets until he found Harry's phone, which made a half-decent penlight. He watched carefully for signs of nystagmus, checking his pupils and making him track a finger with his eyes. Finally, he palpated the area carefully, ignoring Lestrade's grumbling.

When he was satisfied that Lestrade was only slightly bruised, he looked up to see Sherlock pontificating to the man Donovan had pinned to the table.

“If you had been paying attention, you would have seen he was clearly out of bounds.” Sherlock explained, gesturing with the drink he had somehow managed not to spill in the chaos.

John sighed, resolving never to bring Sherlock to a pub again.

 

* * *

  
******4.**

“No, thanks. I've had enough coffee today.”

John glanced over at Donovan. Normally she would be on her fourth or fifth cup by now, but he hadn't seen her touch the stuff all day. The skin under her eyes was puffy, almost bruised, like she hadn't been sleeping.

She looked up at him suddenly and fixed him with a glare. He looked away.

-

“How do you do it?” she asked.

“Do what?”

“Raise a child. On your own, and with the fr—with Holmes dragging you around half of London.”

John looked down at his mobile, at Rosie's chubby cheeks and Mary's eyes.

“I haven't figured it out yet.” he said, sighing. “Pretty sure I'm making a muck of it.”

Sally looked down at the photo. “She looks happy enough.”

John put the mobile away. “My mum helps out some. Molly's been a lifesaver. Would you believe she had five siblings? Helped raise all of them.”

“And Holmes?”

John smiled wearily. “I've never seen him look so—I can't even describe it. It's almost...light. Like he's letting himself relax in ways he hasn't since  _ he _ was a child. And she just adores him.”

“He can't take care of himself. How can you expect him to take care of a baby?”

“It's true,” John acknowledged. “Stubborn git can't be bothered to remember to feed himself, much less sleep or stay out of active crime scenes. But Rosie? He'd never let her come to harm. He cares about her more than he does himself.”

Sally fixed him with a long stare. “You poor bastard.”

“What?”

“You're in love with him, aren't you?”

“Jesus Christ, Sally. I was  _ married _ . To a woman.”

“What's that got to do with it?”

“Everything!” he spluttered. “I'm. Not.  _ Gay. _ ”

“And what's  _ that _ got to do with anythin'?” she asked. “Look. When you met Mary, what did you love about her?”

“Her smile,” he said, picturing it. “It was so warm. She could get a patient from screaming to calm with just a look and a few words.”

“And if a man had that smile?”

Sherlock's smile was nothing like Mary's. Hers was warm like a hearth on a chilly evening; his was blinding. Her eyes had been soft and inviting, with a hidden edge of steel. Sherlock's stare drew you in whether you liked it or not. Like the rest of him.

“I'm not in—” John swallowed. “Look. She's only just...I couldn't  _ want _ someone. Not that fast.”

“It's not that you've stopped wanting Mary,” Sally said quietly. “It's that you've never stopped wanting him.”

John's fists clenched tightly. “And what about Anderson? Does he love  _ his _ wife, now he's going to be a father?”

Sally's mouth opened, then closed silently. She stared at him, her eyes dark and wounded.

“Shit.” John muttered. “I'm so—”

“Fuck you, Watson. You two fucking  _ deserve _ each other.”

“Sally—does anyone know?”

She stopped, looking down at the filthy pavement. “No. Just...me and Anderson.”

“How far along are you?”

She brought her arm across her belly, gripping her blouse self-consciously. “Eight weeks.”

“And he...?”

“Doesn't think it's his.” She laughed bitterly. “Like I've got time to sleep with anyone else.”

“Jesus,” he said. “And your family...”

“Haven't got any.”

“And are you...?”

“This might be my last chance. I can't see myself...even if Anderson's a git, it's still...” She swallowed. “I think I'd be a good mum.”

“I think you will, too. Look, who's your obstetrician?”

“Don't have one yet.”

“I went to med school with one who's really good. Single mum. Don't know how she made it through med school with a kid.” He shook his head. “I could give you her number.”

“I'd like that.”

John hesitated. “Listen. Would you like to...come over sometime? See Rosie.”

“You hate me.”

“I never hated you, Sally. I hate how you treat Sherlock, but you're a good cop.” He looked down. “I haven't been any better.”

“You know what he did when we first met?” she asked. “He accused my old boss of hiring me for political reasons. So he could say, 'I'm not a racist misogynist. I've got Sally Donovan.' ” She said. “He  _ was _ a racist prick. But Sherlock didn’t need to point that out.”

John winced.

Sally's mobile rang, providing a much-needed distraction.

“Donovan,” she answered. “Yeah? We'll be right there.” She ended the call and slid the phone back into her pocket. “Looks like they found something.”

“Lead the way.”

He watched her walk back to the squad car, suddenly very tired.

 

* * *

 

**5.**

“It's here, somewhere, it  _ has  _ to be!” Sherlock said impatiently, rifling through a stack of papers.

“Fairly sure the drugs squad would have found it by now.” John muttered, making a half-hearted attempt to search the victim's shelves.

Sherlock sneered but didn't comment for once on the incompetence of the drugs squad, the police force, or the population of London as a whole. John decided to take that for a win. A much-needed one.

His head throbbed. He'd gotten maybe four hours of sleep in the last two days, partially because of the case, partially because Rosie had been up vomiting half the night, which meant he had been up  _ watching  _ her vomit half the night, and now Molly Hooper had that pleasure. The cheap hospital coffee he'd bolted down earlier had done little to alleviate the fog that surrounded him or the dull pain throbbing in his left temple. His stomach turned.

“ _ Think _ , John!” Sherlock snapped, snatching up a sheaf of sheet music and rapping it against the desk. “He had to get the drug into her somehow. Not in the ordinary way. He was clever,  _ very  _ clever—how did he do it?”

“How would I know?” John growled. “You seem to think I'm the least clever person in London.”

Sherlock tapped a finger against his lips absently. “Don't be absurd,  _ Anderson's  _ the least clever person in London.”

John rolled his eyes and kept pretending to search. He pictured Rosie asleep in her crib, tiny hands curled against her pink mouth. He could almost smell the sweetness of her hair, that inexplicable child- smell that he never got tired of. And he was missing it for this.

They worked in silence for a long while, searching drawers and shelves, until John heard something that made his blood run cold.

“Mary,” Sherlock said softly. “What are you doing here?”

He turned to see that Sherlock had gone white as the sheet of paper still clutched in his hands. His forehead was broken out with sweat, and his pupils were enormous as he stared at the empty doorway.

“Sherlock,” he began. It must have been transdermal, he realized. The sheet music. Genius, really. Sherlock would have loved it if he'd been in any state to appreciate it.

“I'm so sorry.” Sherlock whispered hoarsely. “I didn't mean to kill you.”

“Sherlock...”

The detective curled in on himself, hands on his elbows, shaking his head.

“It's all my fault, I'm sorry—don't go. He needs you.”

John seized Sherlock by his arms. “Sherlock, stop it!”

Sherlock shoved him so hard he hit the desk. John grimaced at the flash of pain as his back hit the sharp wooden edge.

“Please don't go. He can live without me, he already has done. He can't live without you. Mary, I'm so sorry—”

“For fuck's sake, Sherlock!”

Sherlock's gaze snapped upward. Recognition glinted in his eyes.

“John?”

“Jesus, Sherlock.” John straightened with a wince.

“Please don't hate me.” Sherlock begged. “I didn't mean to—God, there was so much blood. It wouldn't stop.” He stared down at his hands. “It won't come off. Help me get it off—”

Sherlock started scratching at his palms. His nails, overgrown from neglect, made pink furrows in the flesh, scraping deep into the pale flesh.

“Sherlock, stop!”

John grabbed his wrists, but Sherlock resisted, pulling back against his grip. Growling, John knocked his feet from under him. They fell together in a heap, John on top, pinning Sherlock's wrists by his side, his legs under John's feet.

“I have to get it off.” Sherlock said, eyes wide and fixed. “It won't come off. It won't come off. It won't—”

“Hush, Sherlock.”

“John, I'm so sorry. I promised I would keep her safe...keep you both.”

“For fuck's sake!” John's eyes squeezed shut. “There's nothing you could have done. She  _ chose _ to get between you and the gun. It was her decision.”

“Then why do you hate me?”

John took a deep breath, then another.

“I don't hate you,” he said finally. “I never did. I hated myself.”

“Please don't hate me, John.”

“I don't—”

Sherlock's head snapped back against the floor, striking twice before John grabbed a handful of his hair to hold him still. Sherlock struggled but went limp after a few moments.

John loosened his grip, stroking the thick curls with a sweaty palm.

“Hush, Sherlock. It's okay.” John said. “It's going to be okay.”

They stayed there on the floor for a long time, John laid out over Sherlock's shivering body.

 

* * *

 

**+1.**

Sunlight streamed through the window, much more than he was used to seeing when he woke up. Judging by the lack of crying from the nursery, Sherlock must have fed Rosie. He'd taken to kipping on the sofa after finishing a case. John couldn't remember sleeping this long or this deeply since...well.

He stretched, feeling a ghost of the familiar twinge in his shoulder. The bed felt so much larger these days, larger than it had any right to feel. He'd thought about getting a smaller one, but he couldn't stomach the thought of losing  _ their _ bed.

Rolling over, he considered what to do with their day. Rosie had loved the ducks last time they visited the park in Battersea, had laughed and clapped her little hands at the sight of them bobbing in the water. They had half a head of lettuce in the fridge. They were too lazy and well-fed to eat unless you threw it right at them, but he had good aim.

A shrill scream interrupted his thoughts. Heart racing, he jumped to his feet, kicking the sheets away. Flinging open the door, he scanned the scene for threats.

“Now, now, Watson,” Sherlock murmured, scooping Rosie into his arms. “It's just a scratch. Nothing a little soldier can't handle.”

John's eyes went immediately to Rosie's hand. A cut across the center of her palm oozed blood—painful, but not life-threatening. He relaxed slightly.

Before he could take over, Sherlock carried Rosie into the bathroom, setting her carefully on the counter. As John watched, he retrieved plasters and ointment, then turned on the faucet. Once the temperature met his standards, he held her little hand under the stream. Her crying had died down to a slight sniffle.

“Brave little soldier,” Sherlock said, carefully rinsing out the wound with unscented soap. “Your mum and dad would be very proud.”

John swallowed, his heart suddenly racing again.

Finally Sherlock turned off the tap, patting her hand dry with a clean cloth and applying a thin layer of ointment. He topped it off with a plaster and, to John's shock, a light kiss to her injured palm.

“At ease,” Sherlock said primly. Rosie giggled and grabbed a handful of Sherlock's curls.

Sherlock's eyes widened when he caught sight of John.

“Ah! Good morning, John.” He lifted Rosie under her arms, setting her down to toddle away. “I didn't realize you were awake. I should probably go and...”

“Stay,” John ordered.

“For breakfast?” Sherlock asked, fidgeting.

“No. Just...stay.” John stepped closer, taking Sherlock's hand in his. Sherlock stared as if transfixed.

Slowly, keeping his eyes on Sherlock's, he lifted the hand to brush his lips against the backs of his fingers. Sherlock's eyes slid shut.

“There's another bedroom upstairs,” John said quietly. “If we'd be needing two bedrooms.”

They stood there silently for a moment. Rosie played in the background, her injury already forgotten.

“I would like that very much.” Sherlock said finally.

John released Sherlock’s hand, feeling something settle in his chest, something he hadn’t even known he was missing. He went to start breakfast, leaving Sherlock to watch Rosie as he considered the day to come, and all the ones that would follow. 


End file.
